


Gaol

by resplendentCaballer



Category: Hikari Shinwa | Kid Icarus
Genre: F/M, Gen, questionable headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resplendentCaballer/pseuds/resplendentCaballer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Names don’t work like that,” I explained, the superstition of the town having rubbed off on me over the years.  “If I chose my own name, it would be stealing because I took it without someone giving it to me.  That’s bad luck.”<br/>He let out a short, sharp laugh.  “The gods have bigger things to worry about than stolen names, sweetheart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaol

Dreary towns often lead to dreary people, the matron always told us.  True enough.  That’s just how the world turned there, slowly and deliberately and quietly.  I lived in a sad, silent settlement just big enough for an occasional traveler to pass through but too small to actually attract anyone to live there unless they had something to hide from.  They’d told me my parents had gone there to hide, that in my vein ran the blood of nameless, dead criminals.  I know now that while such statements did hold an inkling of truth in them, they also came from the mouths of those who neither knew nor could fathom the depths of what my parents had done, the good work they’d done that would ultimately seal my fate.

                Ever since I could remember, I had no legs beneath my knees.  Odd births do odd things to a child, matron would say.  They’d debated on whether or not to put me out of my misery as baby, and at the time, I sort of wished they had.  One can surely imagine, at that age, moving around with a flimsy wheelchair and dragging myself around with my arms, no prospect of marriage, no chance of getting a professor, no friends except the chickens I feed and occasionally slaughtered.  I had books, but could only read them at night after dinner and my measly – yet understandably grueling – chores and candles had to be out by a certain time or the matron gave you candle-dipping duty, which made your arms ache for weeks.  I recall receiving such punishment several times, in fact, many times, and it only served to make my already difficult life harder.  Eventually, I managed to start waddling around on my stumps, but the orphanage matron scolded me because it would get my dress dirty and my legs would get bruised.

                I often smelled, as well.  I couldn’t enter the baths alone because the matron feared I’d accidentally drown.  My hair would get greasy and I always felt icky.  I hated that so much.  You see, I truly love few things in this world, and a good hot spring ranks… eh, number two.

                However, the worst part of my admittedly sad existence in that town happened to be the thing that ultimately made me leave.  They refused to name me.  I lived most of my teenage years without a proper name.  My parents hadn’t survived to name me, apparently, my father dying of his wounds shortly after he and mother arrived, and mother dying of both her wounds and the strain of childbirth.  Superstition ran rampant there in that little town, and back then, a child born in such a way would be considered bad luck.  Thus, they’d call me “nameless” or if someone felt particularly _funny_ , “legless.”  If I happened to be close enough, the latter of those would get a fist where ever I could reach, and with my stature, my highest reach tended to be where it mattered.

                Of course, despite my diminutive and disabled status, I had learned much from books.  The region had been infamous for its affinity towards the gods and goddesses of the Underworld, rather than those of the land and skies.  So, even though the town had the typical shrine and temple dedicated to the Goddess Palutena, I made a point of praying to the ones that truly watched over us, those below, and in exchange… well, a lot of things happened that I regret, let’s leave it at that for now.

                One week, a week that the matron had thankfully taken me to the baths, a caravan of mercenaries passed through.  They stayed for the entire week, praying at the town temple and sharpening their weapons during the day and partying at night.  The village boys seemed enamored with the idea of going off to fight and kept pestering the warriors for stories and to see if they could hold a weapon for see some magic.  The girls made to fawn over the men often, but I generally stayed away from the crowds.  On the third day, a boy about my age that accompanied the mercenaries got tired of the crowds and decided to wander.  At the time, I sat on a fence feeding the chickens, wearing a long dress that covered my deformity.  He started pestering me about the chickens, about whether some of them would go to the tavern that night for supper, or how big they got, or what I fed them.  Eventually, I managed to get him to go away, annoyed with him and his constant inquiries.

                Immediately I ended up regretting that, as my dress somehow got snagged on the wooden fence and the wind pushed my wheelchair down the road a ways.  Stuck, I ended up sitting there until well into the evening until the boy came back.

                He looked at me incredulously.  “You’re still there?” he asked.

                I scowled and looked away, throwing a handful of feed to the chickens.  No harm in a little extra dried oats.

                “Come on,” he began, “Why don’t you head down to the tavern and celebrate with the rest of them?  Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you around at all, and I think I’d remember seeing someone like you,” he suggested and I could hear the laughter in his voice.  Now, years later, I know that little rascal had been attempting to flirt with me. 

Unfortunately for him, I’d never heard a person talk like that before and thought his tone more mocking and took offense.  I scoffed indignantly and turned my head to glare at the scrawny, awkward young man.  His hair hung long and untamed, the beginnings of a beard clinging to his chin in a manner that made him look more beast than man.  I’d prepared a scathing remark, but choked on it as I accidentally caught his dark, intense eyes.  “I… I don’t like crowds.  People say I’m bookish,” I said, compensating for my brief speechlessness.

He grinned and I can say that it frightened me.  I’m not even teasing or exaggerating, his freaky grin still gives me the shivers.  “That’s understandable,” he shrugged.  “My offer stands.”

My eyes narrowed and I looked at the lightly rippling fabric of my long skirt.  “Can’t,” I muttered automatically, my eyes flickering over to my flimsy wheelchair, sitting right where the wind had left it.  He must’ve followed my gaze because he tilted his head back. 

After a long, uncomfortable silence, he casually offered to carry me, a suggestion to which I blinked.  Part of me screamed to refuse, suspicious that he could be playing some strange, mean joke on crippled little me, but the other, admittedly dumber part of me made me accept his offer.

He didn’t have much muscle and even with my cooperation, I ended up getting carried like a potato sack.

“By the way, I never caught your name,” he pointed out as we made our way towards the tavern.

Annoyed with both the manner in which he carried me and his inquiry, I replied, “Don’t have one,” in a low mutter.

He laughed in that boisterous way he does.  “Really?  What a coincidence.  Neither do I!  I’m just ‘boy’ or ‘kid,’” he chuckled, but I could detect a hint of bitterness.  “Hey, whadda they call you?”

I shrugged, a clumsy action in that position.  “’Nameless.’  ‘Orphan.’  ‘Girl.’  A lot of other things.”

The nameless boy flinched somewhat, perhaps apprehensive of what name I’d been called.  After a second, he asked, “Why don’t you just choose one?  A name I mean…”

I bulked a bit at that.  A hypocritical question for a hypocrite.  Sure.  “Names don’t work like that,” I explained, the superstition of the town having rubbed off on me over the years.  “If I chose my own name, it would be stealing because I took it without someone giving it to me.  That’s bad luck.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh.  “The gods have bigger things to worry about than stolen names, sweetheart.  Just choose one and get it over with.”

“I could tell you the same thing,” I retorted, shaking my head.

Fortunately for the two of us, one of his mercenary friends caught up with him and started up some conversation that I no longer recall.

Now, that town had so much energy only one other time than that week.  The first time, the small town’s large tavern had filled up with mercenaries and warriors all looking for some fun and a break from the usual fighting.  The young man, his friend, and, consequently, I entered, met with happy cheers, “where’ve-you-beens” and “whatcha-got-theres.”  To my own surprise, I blushed, as several people caught sight of the nameless boy and me and let out a few hoots and hollers.

As soon as that started up, I began to demand to be put down, seeing as back then I still cared about looking like a lady and such.

Vaguely frightened and flatter at once, it struck me how energetic the tavern had become with these visitors.  Such a melancholy atmosphere had turned into celebration as the mercenaries drank themselves silly and gorged on mutton and turkey.  The kegs threatened to go dry, for once in their long, long life.

The boy set me down on a mostly empty bench along a smaller table.  The men – and women, to my surprise at the time – were clad in variation and combinations of heavy leather, chainmail, and light plate.  All still had weapons strapped to their backs and sides, from blades to knives to small lances to bows and even clubs.  At the head of the table, there sat a man with a commanding presence, a large, hulking blade suspended on his back.  Beside him sat a woman with severe features and striking red hair, and to his other side sat an aging blond man in modest robes and what appeared to be a cold temperament.

The boy plopped down next to me on the bench and pointed out the muscular man just as he spotted me.  “Hey, kid,” the large man called.  “Looks like you found yourself a friend!”

Nameless looked over at him and smiled.  “Yeah, boss, I found ‘er outside with the chickens!” he called, then looked back at me.  “That’s the boss, Magnus.  See that sword?” he pointed to the sword that seemed to be nearly as tall as him, “Rumor has it was forged by the god Dyntos specifically for the strongest human to wield and made them even stronger,” he explained quietly, “You know, in case the Goddess Palutena happens to be too busy to come to our rescue.  Emergencies, you know?” 

That definitely was not why that sword existed, and little nameless was speaking out of his backside.  Nevertheless, I nodded, inspecting the sword from afar.  No weapon had any business being that big.  Magnus flashed me a smile.  A gentle, wise smile.  “So, who’s this lovely lady?” he asked.

“Just a nameless, crippled orphan,” I answered, accepting a mug of ale.  I straightened my skirt and smirked.

Magnus chuckled.  “Life’s certainly dealt you a lousy hand,” he said as he tore a mouthful from a mutton leg.

I agreed, laughing darkly, and took a big drink.

For the next four days, life went on like that.  I’d shirk my work and the matron wouldn’t care, happy to see me making friends.  I didn’t remember much of the evenings, a lot of it just being a blur of having fun and being silly.  However, I do still recall one time, sitting with the nameless boy, Magnus, and the redhead whose name I learned to be Vaana, a disciple of the Goddess Viridi.  The other man in the robes, named Larsio, didn’t join us, mainly because he didn’t agree with Vaana’s views.  Larsio, a disciple of Palutena, of course wouldn’t feel comfortable with a person that worshipped the goddess of nature.  They have conflicting ideals or something.  I still don’t know.

They told me stories about past battles and amazing sights, the big cities in the north and the luxurious towns to the south.  They told of bloody wars and strange or unusual occurrences, of rescuing emperors and fighting against horrible monsters of the far past.

Such an experienced group of warriors… I remember asking something along the lines of “If you’re so professional, why’re ya partying li’ this?” complete with the drunken slur.

Magnus’s smile faltered.  “We’ve been hired for a big job.  For some o’ these guys, it’ll end up being their last.”

 

I woke up the morning of the sixth day with a massive headache, the orphanage matron shaking me silly trying to get me to wake up.  “Get up and get dressed,” she hissed, “There’s someone downstairs to see you.”

It turned out I’d said a few things that I can no longer recall, and all those who could tell me nowadays have since perished… mostly at the hands of Dark Lord Gaol.

With assistance from my roommate, I dressed and pulled my hair back into a bun before heading downstairs with help from the matron.

Larsio sat stiffly on a bench near the entryway, eyes darting back and forth like he thought someone would try to rob him.  As I approached in my wheelchair, the matron made to leave, but the monk halted her, claiming he needed to speak with her as well.

Larsio refused to make eye contact with me, only taking a quick glance every once in a while.  “About nineteen years ago,” he began explaining abruptly, without any introduction or greeting or other pleasantries, “Our group received a job from an anonymous employer to retrieve the armor of the late Dark Lord Gaol from his castle,” his voice was without expression, a flat, emotionless tone.  “The heist went flawlessly, but two of our mercs ran off with the armor.”

I looked over at the matron, confused.  The woman had turned sheet-pale.

He continued.  “Well, it turned out our faceless patron had far more reason want the armor than just a collector’s piece.  Within hours, the two supposed traitors were being pursued by Underworld forces.  We didn’t know about this, and thought Ashe and Brun were just trying to get the money for themselves and the boss managed to injure both of them as they fled.  I’d always thought they’d perished, but from what this girl has told me, they made it here before Brun kicked the bucket,” he snapped a loose thread from his sleeve.  “That would mean that Gaol’s armor is somewhere in this disgusting, backwater town,” Larsio scrunched up his nose like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“I-” the matron began.

“If you’d given the young lady what is rightfully hers,” he hissed, teeth-clenched, “She could have been walking all these years.  Now, madam, where is the Gaol armor?” he demanded.

The matron looked like she’d cry.  “It’s not like that!  It’s not my fault… they were going to sell it and the man never arrived and everyone who tried to take it ended up dead and it would be sitting on the doorstep like… like,” she whimpered.  “It’s cursed.  There’s no other explanation.  I locked it up in the basement-”

Larsio didn’t let her finish before whirling out the door and turning towards the direction of the basement doors.  The matron wrung her hands and scurried after him.  I sat there, stupefied and unsure what had happened.  I had heard Larsio mention walking, but didn’t fully realize what he’d said at the time.  I’d never had that much excitement before, and if I hadn’t been nursing a nasty headache, I may have processed his words more thoroughly.

When they returned, Larsio and Magnus where carrying a large crate, which they dropped in front of me, making me jump.  It sounded ridiculously heavy, which it really is.  With Magnus’s help, Larsio pried open the crate with a loud creak and pulled out a sinister-looking helm with small horns coming out the side.  HE breathed a sigh of relief, likely because he saw it wasn’t still activated.  Larsio set the helm aside like a precious, delicate object that could kill him.

“I’ll take that,” interjected Magnus, “Can’t have anyone accidently disturbing ol’ Gaol’s sleep,” he laughed nervously.

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Larsio said, shaking his head, but he didn’t press the subject further.  Annoyed, Larsio had some trouble taking out the next piece, his hand slipping as he dropped a spaulder on his foot and cursed, shaking it off and removing a set of smooth, purple pieces that, together, would make a set of leg plates.  Larsio got on his knees in front of me, a leather harness in his hands.  “Please lift your skirt,” he ordered flatly.

The matron sputtered.  “She will do no such thing!” she exclaimed.

Blankly, I ignored her and did as Larsio asked, revealing my underclothes.  Of course, Larsio didn’t care about my delicates as he slipped the harness over what I had for legs and clinched it so it hugged my waist and thighs snuggly.  He proceeded to begin attaching the parma violet leg plates one at a time, the lower half hanging limply like dead-weight.  I remember thinking that the greaves looked silly, which I still do think.

However, that armor lacked the web of corrupting roots it one day would be covered in.  No flesh-colored tendrils spread across its surface, and the knee had only the typical connection.  At the time, the armor had about as many magical properties as the matron’s bloomers.  “I… This is supposed to help her walk?” the matron asked incredulously.

Larsio ignored her and took one last item from the box:  an ovular, dark red gem that barely fit in his hand.  He unwrapped it from its cloth wrappings and took the left leg of the armor in his hand.  Wordlessly, he fit the gem into a bracket, a niche just below the knee.  The moment Larsio took his hand off it, a light glow began to diffusion from the ankle and a warmth spread through my body, a tingling sensation as if my nerve endings suddenly extended to phantom toes in the pleasantly warm shell of the armor.  For a moment, everyone went silent.

Carefully, I placed an armored, phantom foot on the floor and pushed myself to stand on magic feet.

I could walk.

Larsio clapped his hands together.  “My work here is done,” he said, turning to leave.  He grabbed hold of Magnus.  “If we’re late, we won’t get paid,” he hissed, and Magnus nodded, following out and giving me one last glance.

It took me several moments to realize they were talking about leaving.  Normally, I’d have let that go and keep living in that dreary town, but they changed that.  I could walk.  I could live the adventures I wanted to live.  I could be free from all that.  I could earn a name.

_I could earn a name._

The thought felt so foreign that I thought it had to be something from a book or some fictional land.

I didn’t need any more convincing than that.  I leaped after them, swaying uneasily like a toddler until I fell to my in the swaying grass outside the orphanage.  “Wait!”  I cried, “Take me with you!”  I begged, “I’m the daughter of one of your men, you have to!  Please!”

I can no longer return to that town I grew up in.  It’s gone, razed to the ground with the second coming of Dark Lord Gaol.

 


End file.
